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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236792">The Magnus Records 042 - Grifter's Cross.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinsWorks/pseuds/ErinsWorks'>ErinsWorks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Magnus Records [24]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU: The world is awful and the entities are nice., Alternate Universe, Gen, WHAT OF IT?, Yes Grifter's Cross is just a rip off of The Mechanisms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:41:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,222</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236792</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinsWorks/pseuds/ErinsWorks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In another world, one of quiet violence and blaring tranquility, perhaps a rock band would be the most relaxing of all. Perhaps Alfred Grifter would change his first name as well. Perhaps someone else would be making supplementals.</p>
<p>Here at the Magnus Sanctuary, London, we will find out.</p>
<p>Start your interview. Share your hope.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Magnus Records [24]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1497773</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Magnus Records 042 - Grifter's Cross.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>MAG042 – Resident 3383 – “Grifter’s Cross”</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>KEEPER</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Interview with Jennifer Ling, regarding a live musical performance she attended in Soho. Original interview taken November 3rd 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Record Keeper of the Magnus Sanctuary, London. Interview begins.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>KEEPER (INTERVIEW)</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I was in the M.O.B’s music publishing industry for a while, and as anyone who worked in it can tell you, it was damn soul-sucking. I hate to say it, but for once I genuinely envy the American Republique’s way of doing things, that over-the-top “Laissez-Faire” approach to art. It’s like… This is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Monarchy of Britain, right?</span>
  </em>
  <span> You’ve got a government and a nation practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>designed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to breed hard-rockers and punks and </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolute psychos,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and then you don’t even let them have the privilege of publishing music. </span>
</p>
<p><span>It doesn’t get rid of them, either, not really! It just means that they move all their music to the underground, and suddenly you’ve got people crowding around bands in the same place they sell drugs and bodies and… Well. My point being, banning edgy music makes more problems than it </span><em><span>supposedly</span></em><span> solves. And that’s a </span><em><span>hard</span></em> <em><span>“supposedly”</span></em><span>, cuz again, I’m pretty sure a kid isn’t gonna hear the word “fuck” on an album and turn to a life of sex and cocaine.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>... Am I allowed to say fuck? Sorry, being in publishing really drills this into you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anyway, I guess this all brings me back to Grifter’s Cross. It’s a story everyone in the music industry has heard once or twice. Sometimes they’re a band, sometimes it’s just one guy. If the story has them as a band, then the only one whose name the old-timer knows- because it’s ALWAYS an old-timer- is a guy named Alfy Grifter. Most will acknowledge that the name is </span>
  <em>
    <span>ridiculous,</span>
  </em>
  <span> very clearly part of some kind of persona, but others will swear on their grave that it’s his real name. Fact is, no-one knows a damn thing about him besides his fictional “lore”, so it’s all just a lot of gossip.</span>
</p>
<p><span>The story goes that a local legend rock musician becomes some kind of born-again christian prude, and asks God to bless him with “pure” music. It’s an unfortunately common story, but the twist is that </span><em><span>he really does </span></em><span>get</span> <span>“blessed” with “purity”. And it makes his music </span><b><em>so</em></b><span> boring, </span><b><em>so</em></b><span> incredibly inoffensive, that he, or sometimes his band, have to sneak into underground rock groups to get an audience. And the music itself is dull, a sad display of classical piano chords and religious lyrics, too preachy and edgeless to stand. You can always tell when Grifter’s Cross has been on, they’ll tell you… Because everyone’s fallen into a boredom-induced coma. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>Anyway, I got my job because my friend Tommy Moncrecef said it paid well, and it did but... It got lonely when he died. My local branch of the censure program had been around for ages, and that meant that I was effectively the only young blood in the whole damn building. Apart from me it was just a bunch of old, prudish white men who were about as conservatively-minded about music as the government we worked for, which… Well I suppose it suited them just fine, but it got damn annoying. I was just doing my </span>
  <em>
    <span>job,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but they treated their reviews like some kind of crusade against “degenerate noise”, to save “real music”. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But even </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>didn’t like when music was </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> inoffensive. So whenever somebody was listening to a religious song that had been submitted, or just something utterly and obviously pandering to the censors, one of the old timers- usually Mike Baker- would shout over “I see you got the new Grifter’s Cross album!” or, “Alfy Grifter is risen! He is risen indeed!”, or some other obnoxious bull. It was annoying as hell, but bringing it up meant talking to him, so I… Well, I didn’t. And after hearing every possible variation of the story from a half-dozen boring old writers who’d made a den of the break room, I just kind of decided to let it go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I didn’t think much more about it until earlier this year. There's a guy who worked in the branch by the name of Lee Kipple. We sent him all of the weird alt-pop hippie kind of stuff, which he seemed happy enough with. He’s the nicest guy I’ve ever met, and I don’t think I’ve ever once heard him complain. He’s tall, a bit lanky, with short blonde hair. It’s also worth mentioning that no one ever sees him without his signature set of heart-shaped sunglasses. Which, yes, he did get shit for, but it never really seemed to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because of his job, what with all the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Peace and Love</span>
  </em>
  <span> music, Lee gets a lot of comments from the older folk about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Grifter’s Cross.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It took me a while to notice how weird his reaction was when this happened. Whereas most of the staff would just respond with a</span>
  <em>
    <span> groan </span>
  </em>
  <span>or an </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh shut up”, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lee would just get… smiley, I guess? His shoulders would loosen, and he’d reach up to adjust his sunglasses, like he was... relaxing. No-one but me seemed to notice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I kept watching him, and the pattern repeated whenever the band was mentioned. I don’t know when I decided that he must have seen Grifter’s Cross perform live, but I did. And more than that, I decided he must’ve been bored into a permanent sleepwalk, and that’s why he wore those silly sunglasses- to cover his sleeping eyes. I didn’t really believe it, obviously. It was just a fun little theory I liked to play around with. But as the cloudy winter days turned into less cloudy summer ones, I noticed that Lee </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>took those sunglasses off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, about a month ago, I decided to just ask him. The branch had supplied us our monthly drinks, and I’ll admit that I’d had a bit more of mine than was advisable, so I decided to slink over to his cubicle and ask him. I asked him if they were as boring as everyone said. He looked puzzled, and I leaned in closer. “Grifter’s Cross,” I said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled a bit at the mention of the name, his face momentarily blissful. I waited for him to adjust his glasses, but instead he just stared out into space, quiet and contemplative. Then he snapped back to reality, looking more awake than I’d ever seen him. He asked me how I knew he’d seen them, and I told them I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hadn’t,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but that he’d just confirmed my suspicions, and demanded to hear the story. Reluctantly, he asked me if I could keep a secret. I lied, and told him that yes, I could. After a moment’s deliberation, he nodded, and began to tell me the story.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was four years ago, he told me, at an underground music club in Kilburn. Lee had been watching a rebellious metal band whose name he could no longer recall- they’d been fine, but definitely not worth the risk of being arrested, so he was in a mood to just leave as soon as possible. The rest of the audience seemed to be of a similar mind, so nobody noticed when a man climbed onto the stage, and began to set up a microphone and… And pulled out a harmonica. The man was short, so Lee said, and somewhat softish, wearing a plain white suit that wrapped tightly around his frame like- in Lee’s words- “a tux made of medical gauze”. His fluffy black hair had puffed out, and his eyes had a strange look of tranquil glee. More musicians began to almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>appear</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the stage, seemingly from thin air- a guitarist, a bassist, another singer, until a band of 6 was ready to perform. Lee said he had never heard of Grifter’s Cross until this moment, but somehow, he knew that’s what he was looking at. And then the music started.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After he said this, Lee seemed to lose his track of thought once more, words trailing off into silence. It was clear that he fondly regarded this memory. I waited, not wanting to interrupt, but in the end, he just shrugged. He couldn’t remember the music, he said. He’d fallen asleep some ways through the performance, and the only thing he could remember of it was- again, in his words- “The way it lifted his heart as he dreamed”. When he woke, he found himself once again sitting alone in the empty Kilburn club, drool disgustingly coating the neck of his shirt. The club was quiet as a pin, he said, and of the crowd of dubious patrons that littered the place, not a single one snored.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughed, then, and I laughed too. Something about the thought of a crowd of punks, quiet and peaceful and sleeping like babies, was just… </span>
  <em>
    <span>funny.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But I still had questions, and I asked about his eyes. He laughed again and said no, he wasn’t still asleep. Reaching up, Lee pulled down those silly heart-shaped shades of his and gave me a look at his eyes. They were… Ghostlike. Ethereal. Pale and milky, and peaceful. Like a pool you could sink into. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stared at those eyes, and kept staring, and felt this indescribable feeling of peace… And then he put the shades back on. “They’re pretty, but it makes it hard to get my work done, you know?” Lee said. I nodded, even though I really</span>
  <em>
    <span> didn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> know. I asked if he’d seen an </span>
  <span>optometrist about the matter, and he said that he wasn’t exactly eager to be the newest M.O.B. lab rat. He pulled out one of his drinks and took a long, quiet sip. We headed our separate ways shortly after. I could’ve left it at that, even though I had begun to talk to Lee more. But I found that I just couldn’t let it go- Either Lee was mad, or Grifter’s Cross was real. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I started doing research online. Most sites referenced it as an urban legend. There was a Christian rock group in Oregon who had proudly named themselves Grifter’s Cross after what they described as</span>
  <em>
    <span> “Britain’s musical prophets of Christ”</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But most interestingly was… Well, the most obvious one. Just punching </span>
  <em>
    <span>“grifterscross.com”</span>
  </em>
  <span> into the address bar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The website had several tabs, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Welcome To The Cross”,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>“The Crew”.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It wasn’t even close to a religious band, aside from the themes of Abrahamic mythology they had. In fact, on the topic, they had this whole… In-universe story… about like… cyborg space pirates? I don’t know, it was complicated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And weirdest of all, literally no one online was talking about it online. I figured the site had to have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>new</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or else there would’ve been a hundred theories about it being some kind of ARG. But nope, according to the site it had been last copyrighted in </span>
  <em>
    <span>2004. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I tried to send the link to Lee, but my messages completely stopped going through. I was the only person in the world who knew this website existed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But what finally ended up catching me was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Upcoming Events”</span>
  </em>
  <span> tab. Because the only thing there was just the phrase </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Tonight. Soho. Bring your sunglasses, sleepyheads.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It probably says something about my gullibility that all it took to convince me that this site was the real deal was a vague reference to the story Lee had told me. But I believed it anyway. And, I’m glad I did. Because the second work ended that night, I began to prowl the streets of Soho, looking for anything that could be music-enthusiasts’ gathering, trying my best not to attract the scowling attention of the M.O.B. enforcers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took no small measure of effort, but finally, luck hit me. A man with fluffy black hair, in a suit that fit too tight. There were five figures behind him, each in a similarly unorthodox outfit. Together, they carried a plethora of instruments, the largest of them carrying two massive speakers, a wide grin on his face. I waited for the enforcers to confront them, or worse, tackle them to the ground. But it was as if the enforcers simply couldn’t be borrowed to deal with them, even as the shortest among them apologetically shuffled around one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, they turned down a flight of stairs, into an off-the-corner bar I didn’t recognize. After a few seconds, I considered following them, but hesitated. If Lee’s story was true, and there was something magically sleep-inducing about this music, then going down there would probably be dangerous. I didn’t want to chance it, so I resolved to just sit at the top of the stairs and wait for the music to start. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a few minutes of shivering in the cold, I finally resigned myself to the fact that the man I assumed to be Alfy Grifter was probably just some eccentric weirdo with a microphone. But as I began to leave… I heard it. Muffled through the walls, but still rising distinctly to where I stood, words. Lyrics, like spoken-word poetry. Punchy. Loud. And yet, whether it was something about the way he spoke, his accent, or the words themselves, the speaker was… Calming. Relaxing. He was telling a story. One of cathartic violence and bloodshed, but one that felt so removed from reality that it was… Almost soothing. And then, the words that finally confirmed my suspicions rang out through the stairway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Now, I, your humble narrator, Alfy Grifter, and the rest of the band, have a tale to tell… So listen close. Sleep well. Dream your dreams. And listen to the music”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The musical stylings were the last thing you would have expected: Loud. Riotous. Violent. With gritty, rebellious lyrics, sentiments that would’ve made your stomach churn if anyone else sang them, and yet… I had never heard anything so soothing. It was loud and ugly Celtic Rock, the last thing I would call relaxing. And yet even still, I felt my eyelids begin to slip closed. But I couldn’t fall asleep, not yet. I wouldn’t let this masterpiece be a lullaby.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I must’ve sat there for hours, trying not to nod off. All the while, listening to the beautiful tapestry of story and song that the band weaved. I think I might’ve started to cry at one point, when the “love interest” of the album’s story died. It really was beautiful, in a way I can’t explain. I can’t explain how I was able to feel such peace from tales of violence. But I did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the story came to a close, I couldn’t keep myself from creeping downstairs. I had to see the band playing live. It was against my best judgement, I know, But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> to see them, to hear that ugly, soothing music up close. I pushed through the door, and all I could see under the harsh spotlights of the place was Alfy Grifter and the rest of the Cross just… Standing there. Alfy’s smile was brilliant, and kind, if not absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>manic</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He turned to me in the doorway and asked a simple question: </span>
  <em>
    <span>“One last song, then?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I nodded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And as soon as he’d sang the 4th note, I was asleep. The saddest thing? It was the best sleep I’d had in my entire life. When I woke up, the room was empty, save the sleeping bodies of the other “fans”. I couldn’t wake any of them up, and I figured it was probably best to leave before I got implicated in… </span>
  <em>
    <span>something.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’ve tried to access the website since that night. Nothing comes up. But I’ve been trying every day since, and hopefully... I’ll get to hear Grifter’s Cross again. And when I do, I’m going to download everything I can from the </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Tracks Downloads”</span>
  </em>
  <span> page.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>KEEPER</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Interview ends.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I must guiltily admit that I returned to my old habits of searching for evidence to verify this interview, not because I disbelieve it, but to confirm the obvious details held therein. As to be expected, nothing can be easily found on the internet, beyond  the details Ms. Ling described... and typing “Grifterscross.com” into the address bar crashes my laptop’s internet browser. In all honesty, that may be more convincing proof of the supernatural nature of this would-be band than if it </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> actually taken me to the website.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Interestingly enough, Ms. Ling vanished from Sanctuary Care roughly two weeks after Gertrude took this interview, leaving nothing but a set of white goggles on the floor beneath her bed. Furthermore, while it may or may not be relevant... It is worth noting that medical records show many of those under Sanctuary care suffering from </span>
  <em>
    <span>insomnia </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>violent and/or self-harming tendencies</span>
  </em>
  <span> began to show remarkable spikes in improvement following her disappearance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>… Given this correlation, I am left with the hopeful feeling that Ms. Ling was finally able to download those tracks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>TRUE!SASHA</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>(In a kind of delighted sing-song) </span>
  </em>
  <span>… Supplemental!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, for anyone who’s listening, my name is Sasha James. Although, if my friend in the Mirror is anything to go by, I guess it would be more accurate to call me…</span>
  <em>
    <span> True Sasha! </span>
  </em>
  <span>After all, they’re the </span>
  <em>
    <span>True!Them,</span>
  </em>
  <span> so it makes sense that I’m like… the True Me now! But, I’ll get to that later. In another supplemental, probably!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anyways, my friend the True!Them’s been keeping me honest with myself. A little piece of the mirror’s inside of me, and it constantly reminds me who I </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>am, not the unfamiliar version of myself I’ve made. And, more than that, it lets me know when people are being… Familiar! Friendly! </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>… And boy oh boy, this </span>
  <em>
    <span>place,</span>
  </em>
  <span> this </span>
  <em>
    <span>sanctuary…</span>
  </em>
  <span> It is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> friendly. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>trusting,</span>
  </em>
  <span> sure, but it doesn’t really pry in the way that any good friend does, when it’s really really necessary to pull the bad stuff right out of you and into the open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To be honest? I don’t like it. But!!! Unlike my friends at the dock, I can see why it needs to be here!!! So people like us can stay hidden from the world. You know? Of course you know. You’re listening to this after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anyway!!!</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>[TRUE!SASHA CLAPS. THERE IS A LIGHT SHAKING SOUND AS SHE FLAPS HER HANDS.]</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So. My point is. Martin’s not being friendly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s hiding something, from himself, and from everyone else. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t think he’s gonna tell me. He really doesn’t like me, which is fair, cuz I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tim’s probably Martin’s best friend in the whole wide world- and, frankly, I’m not sure if that says more about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Martin</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>his friends-</span>
  </em>
  <span> but he’s a bit paranoid already, and I’m not sure it’d be healthy to start him on that path, y’know? I think Jon might be the one to get it out of him, but that’s not ideal, because this Sanctuary’s already starting to get his hands on him, and that means </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s not gonna pry!!!</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>… So I think that means I’ll have to be the one to pry </span>
  <em>
    <span>for</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. It’ll take a while, and I’ll have to keep quiet but-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>[A DOOR OPENS]</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh! Hello Alexander! Just a second!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>SPECIAL THANKS TO. UHM. WHOEVER SUGGESTED THIS. I KNOW IT WAS SOMEBODY, I JUST CAN'T FIND THE COMMENT. AND ALSO, SPECIAL THANKS AS ALWAYS TO ZYKA BECAUSE SHE SINGLEHANDEDLY FIXED SASHA!!! LOVE YOU, WHOMST!!!</p>
<p>Anyway yeah, I really liked this concept- a hard rock band that gives you Relaxed Sleepy feels rather than a classical musician who gives you Violent Murder feels. And, seeing as it gave me an opportunity to rip-off the Mechs (who, are a very good celtic rock band, that I very much recommend), it was perfect!</p>
<p>ALSO, SASHA SUPPLEMENTALS. SASHAMENTALS. HOPE Y'ALL ENJOY.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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